Three weeks ago, I tried to take my girlfriend horseback riding at Mount Charleston. We made reservations and then we got rained out.
“We’ve gone six weeks without a miss,” I was told. “But now the trails are muddy, so it wouldn’t be safe. Let’s try again one day soon.”
Fair enough. I waited a week and then called back to reschedule.
“I don’t think it’s going to work out,” I was told.
“Why not?”
“We’re closed for business.”
“Permanently? In the past week?”
“Our owner passed away.”
“Oh. God. I’m so sorry.”
“And the business is dissolving, I’m afraid.”
“I’m so sorry.”
The Mount Charleston woman recommended the Sagebrush Ranch as a replacement. And there, at Sagebrush, my girlfriend and I were finally able to ride.
Most of the horses at Sagebrush had names like “Pumpkin” and “Autumn.” But not mine. Mine was named “Pistol.” Which worried me.
For nothing, turned out. Pistol was the most ironically named horse in Nevada. Seriously, Pistol wouldn’t break out into a trot to escape a barn fire.
The sunset ride was beautiful, and I’m thinking we’ll return. Only next time, I’m requesting “Slowpoke.” That horse probably knows how to book it.
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